Extrait de Parfum de Villanelle
by Hors D'oeuvres
Summary: Extrait de Parfum— the extract of perfume— is the purest and truest visions of a fragrance created… It is luxurious, long-lasting, raw, and intimate. It is the true essence of a perfume, and it is in exploring its essence that one comes to a genuine appreciation of its creation… Extrait de Parfum de Villanelle: a fragrance explored. AU.


_Extrait de Parfum— the extract of perfume— is the purest and truest visions of a fragrance created… It is luxurious, long-lasting, raw, and intimate. It is the true essence of a perfume, and it is in exploring its essence that one comes to a genuine appreciation of its creation… _

_Extrait de Parfum de Villanelle: a fragrance explored. _

_AU. _

—

_Notes: _

_This is my first Killing Eve fanfic, and my first fanfic in a while. It will have multiple chapters and will have some dark themes, so please mind the tags. Reviews are also greatly appreciated. _

_I hope you will enjoy it— thank you. _

—

_Chapter 1: Roses de Sucre et Mangue_

It didn't take long for her eyes to adjust to the dim light and shadows, so well that sometimes she imagined herself to actually be able to see in the dark. Maybe it was a condition. Maybe it was a blessing. Regardless, she felt it natural for her to have such a skill. Especially with the type of activities she doggedly pursued. The type of activities that were also much easier to accomplish with her incredibly potent sense of smell.

_A whiff. _Roses. Bloomed. Freshly picked. She could almost imagine the delicate feel of their petals against her cheek. Could almost taste the drops of dew on her tongue. _Another whiff- _a gentler mix of scents: magnolia flower, lily, pink peony, and freesia. Chloé, Eau de Parfum. A vibrant fragrance , as advertised, intimate and sensual. Admirable taste. Expensive taste. She took in a deeper breath and effortlessly loped into the bedroom, sliding past the half-open door with no difficulty at all, and finally laid her gaze on the beautiful woman lying quietly- _helplessly- _ peacefully- _vulnerably- _on the luxurious king-sized bed.

She tilted her head to the side, her own petals of excitement budding in her chest. She tells herself to keep her breathing even, regular, she would soon be rewarded— after all, there was nothing she enjoyed more than being _very, very good _at her job.

A smile played on her lips, cold, calculating. She had to make her move and not waste any more time. So, carefully, she took her phone out of her pocket. She had already done a good bit of the work prior to this night, but she needed closer proximity at the actual moment of the overdose. _Why? _For insurance, of course.

The woman was a diabetic. Type 1. And she had just started using the newly-released to the market _OG (On-The-Go) _insulin pump that was created, patented, and trademarked by IMedtek. It was an ingenious creation but also one that had multiple security failings. It didn't take long for her, _yes her, _to figure out that she could remotely control these pumps.

After all, once she saw the Target, Lena Van Newton, use her own mini-remote to set her insulin dose after checking her blood sugar level, she knew that it wouldn't take long for her to determine the radio frequencies that the remote and pump used to communicate to each other. Wouldn't take long to, satisfactorily, figure out that the lines weren't even encrypted. Wouldn't be hard at all to reverse engineer the simple encoding and checks involved in protecting the signal, giving her access to the commands that the _OG _pump will trust and promptly execute.

No. It didn't take long at all. So now, she opens the new phone app she had developed and carefully looks at the screen. The pump had just been re-filled by her Target prior to sleeping, so she had more than enough to play with. Her phone showed that it was _1:20 am._ Just in time and just enough time.

A bolus. A big dose would do well, to flood her body with insulin and and crash her sugar. Hypoglycemia. Dangerous for a diabetic. Shaking, sweating, headache; symptoms that are noticeable and can be stopped if the patient were awake, would not bother her sleep too much. Her sugar would sink too quickly to dangerously low levels. Coma or death would be the skipped-to next step.

She started to manipulate the settings on her screen, a few quick taps and presses here and there, sending all of the commands to the woman currently still sleeping soundly on her bed. She must have been tired. And well, the dose of liquid Benadryl in her food most likely helped some as well. The kitchen staff was grossly daft— even if they did make a delicious butternut squash and white cheddar soup.

A few more seconds, and the commands were all sent. She closed her phone's screen and slid it back into her pocket. Then, she took a few steps back. Careful. Watching. Listening. _Smelling. _Enough time had passed, and the guards would be coming back soon— but all they would see would be a beautiful woman, deep in slumber.

She took in another deep breath and turned around. She was done here. Cautiously yet confidently, she made her way back to the bathroom, one of the few places with no security cameras on the property. The closed window was easily opened, and she slid her slim body out with no difficulties. Hands firm on the sill, she reached up and closed the window tightly.

A breath. The air was crisp. What a beautiful night to be creeping around in the dark.

She skillfully made her way to the exposed drain and started making her way down. Down. Down. Down. Then, she made her way horizontally, holding tightly onto the lower level window sills, thankful for the intricate architectural designs that the Bourgeoisie were so fond of.

Finally, she reached paved ground, and she smiled— after all, she was not planning on leaving any traceable footprints on the malleable grass. She quietly placed her feet on the walkway and shook her hands, letting the blood flow, reminding her of one of her favorite activities: bouldering. But now was not the time for reminiscing, so, she quickly and stealthily began to make her way out of the grounds.

The rest was easy. Dodge a couple of guards here and there, stay low to avoid detection, slide her body through a cavity that she had painstakingly chiseled out of the wall surrounding the property (which sounds harder than it was. Honestly, she just chipped away at old mortar and had gotten three large rectangular blocks free. Just enough space for her to squeeze through).

Once she was out, she started to walk towards the direction she had come, making her way to the motorcycle she had used as transport. It was a brisk walk, not a run but not a leisurely pace either. Two minutes into the walk, she had pulled her black mask off, revealing more than just her cat-like eyes. Her honey blonde hair was in a tight braid that wove its way to the back of her neck, and her lips were full and curled into a satisfied smirk.

She put her mask into the small bag she was carrying and took out another phone. From memory, she dialed a number. A ring and it was answered quickly by a deep, rough voice, "Luigi's Pizza place. You can order by the pan or the slice. What can I do for you?"

"Do you have salads? I'm really watching my diet," she responded, cheekily, her voice clear and distinctively Russian in accent.

A heavy sigh. "We had a meeting. We had a powerpoint. The codes, Villanelle. The _codes are to be used_."

She uttered a fake gasp. "Well now there's no use since you used my name," she tsked. "And what accent was that supposed to be? Italian? That sounded decidedly Arab. Shall I order pita instead?"

"Is it done?" The deep voice directed, ignoring her words. She rolled her eyes slightly.

"Yes."

"Good. Give me the full report when you are back in HQ. And oh," a pause, "pick up your little sister on the way."

She raised a perfectly shaped brow. "Which one?" And then, curiosity getting the best of her (as it always did). "And why?"

"Sonnet."

Ah. Her lips quickly curled into a wide smile, mischievous. "Why?" She pressed again.

"... she is detained currently by Italian security for attempting to board a flight with a knife in her bag. One she has never had before. And a note in her pocket. The mark had flipped the situation on her."

Villanelle laughed. She was high on a successful kill. High on not being caught. And this— _this was fucking hilarious. _

"Sonnet got _duped_?" She emphasized, another laugh. A sigh from the other line.

"Pick up your little sister and come home. Goodbye." And the call was ended.

Villanelle shook her head and put her phone back in her bag. She had finally reached her motorcycle: a 2018 Ducati Monster 821. Sleek and stylish, but also quite effective.

She turned around and took one more look at the general direction of her Target's estate and smiled.

_Sonnet must be so pissed off. _

* * *

"Why. In. All. Fresh. Hells— _did they send you_?" Sonnet hissed under her breath when she and Villanelle were finally in the privacy of a large, black SUV. Villanelle took in a deep breath— _mango and citrus, unchanged— _and evenly replied, "I was closest. I just _accomplished _a job in Vienna."

Sonnet's face scrunched up at her choice of words. _Accomplished. _She made sure to sit as far away from her as possible and clicked her tongue. "I could have gotten out of there by myself."

Villanelle tried very hard not to— _who was she kidding?— _she rolled her eyes hard and said, "I am sure. But father wants us back ASAP. And it would have taken you longer without any help."

Sonnet remained silent, but her jaw was tight and her arms were firmly crossed over her chest.

Villanelle almost wanted to point out this childish behavior. A fit, a temper tantrum, then quiet time. And _they _said she was immature. _Bleh._

Taking off her sunglasses, she lazily leaned back and gave the driver a quick 'go ahead' signal. He nodded curtly and the SUV immediately started moving. She nodded in satisfaction. He was the best driver that had been assigned to her so far.

What was his name? _Aaron. _He was tall and slim with a serious and no-nonsense attitude. Which made it all the more fun to try to fluster him with whatever came to her mind. She remembers the time she had hired three strippers to do a private show for her in a luxurious white limo in Berlin. One of them she had made sure to be stripping in the front passenger seat. Aaron had blinked non-stop throughout the whole ordeal.

His round glasses had even fogged up. Villanelle had kindly suggested to him to buy anti-fogging glasses, making him look at her with a '_what the fuck?' _expression on his face.

She chuckled at the memory. Ah, _good times, good times. _

And besides, he _was _unquestionably competent. Prompt. Did not try to talk unless talked to. Quick to follow commands. And— every once in a while, he would cast out a dry zinger, making her laugh. Like when the strippers were dropped off and he had, quite evenly, stated, "well, I don't suppose she'd be offended that I didn't give her a tip?"

She laughed loudly at that, taking it as a joke, though sometimes… she did wonder if he really thought strippers were to be tipped. And now that she was thinking about it again, she wondered then too if she really should have given them a tip—

"Where are we going?" Sonnet suddenly asked, derailing her train of thought.

"To the private airport. Don't worry, you know they won't frisk you there."

Sonnet glared at her. "Laugh all you want. She got Prose too," she bit out.

Villanelle turned to her and raised a brow. Sonnet's long dark hair, that was usually pulled up into a tight ponytail, was framing her angled jaw and smooth cheekbones. Her sharp blue eyes were directed at her challengingly, and her left brow was twitching slightly— a tell that she was very, very angry.

Villanelle took this all in and, once again, laughed. Heartily. "Prose?" She asked, snickering like a child. "You _and _Prose?" She added, more than just amused.

"Is it so surprising that _she _got caught?" Sonnet asked, the emphasis on 'what's so special about her when I got caught too?'

Villanelle let out a long breath and said, "no, but it is surprising that the mark has _duped _two— not one— but _twwwwooo _Poets." She shook her head and allowed a small grimace to twist her full lips. "Kind of embarrassing, isn't it?"

'I should _spit _at you, _Oksana_." Gone was the English, the practiced Italian accent— in its place was smooth, fluent Russian.

A sliver of silence. Then a warning, "_Nadia_." A sharp flash of the eyes. Foreboding. Villanelle's hands were suddenly too near her, the blonde having slid her body smoothly across the leather covered seats before placing one hand behind the other woman's neck and one on top of her crossed arms.

Her expression was hard, stony. Her eyes were piercing, stabbing at her with a scrutinizing gaze, as if to say, '_who the fuck do you think you are talking to?_' And her hands— they were firm, warm, a sharp contrast to the icy expression on her face.

"You must be so tired," Villanelle sharply said in English, tone low and measured. Nadia, as she was called, flinched at the words, and immediately looked away, unable to hold her gaze.

Villanelle ignored this reaction and continued: "To say such things— to call me by that name. When you know better. Much better." She placed her long fingers on the nape of the the now cowed woman's neck and very deliberately began to knead the tense muscles that only tensed more under her touch.

She took in a deep breath— _sweat and that familiar scent: acrid, bitter, almost metallic. _It was a smell she associated with fear. It was a smell that she knew most could not detect. But she could. She could detect it, and so easily too.

She took in another deep breath and got a stronger whiff of that scent, noting that it was becoming stronger. More bitter. More acrid. And under that layer, another scent. One more shy. More demure…

More… _sensual._

Savoring the scent, she slowly released the other woman's neck and, with great determination, contained herself. Her desire for more of that scent. Her desire to exert more control. Her desire to dig her hands into Nadia's soft hair, pull it back, expose her long neck, and suck on that pulse point on her neck where she was sure her hot blood was rapidly rushing through—

_Fear_ was such an arousing thing, and she loathed having to waste it.

But Father wouldn't like her intimidating and then fucking Sonnet. He had already told her that she wasn't to cast fellow Poets as her lovers or her devices of pleasure. Even those— she had already more than just had a taste of. And she liked her job too much to push **too **strongly against the professional boundaries he had set for her, especially with those in the same department as her.

They were too useful as assets, and quantity was as valued as quality: a fact that was drilled into her because _yesss_, she is the best one, but there are far too many contracts to uphold to have just one Poet.

"_So please, keep your hands in your pockets and your tongue in your mouth. Preferably, also keeping that tightly shut since you usually can't control your own words,_" as Father had told her. So, with a great measure of self-control, she pulled her hand back from the back of Sonnet's neck and placed it on her own lap while one hand remained on the other woman's still tightly crossed arms.

"_Nadia_," she said, tone now softer, reassuring. "You have always performed well, even from the very beginning, which is why I scouted you and recruited you myself; do not let this minor setback make you lose your cool."

She gently stroked the soft skin of her forearm, remembering the earlier days of Sonnet's training. Late nights, early mornings. Travelling to exotic places. Staying at grand hotels and then dingy tents. The cold darkness, the gradually shared warmth. Unexpected companionship. The pleasure she had found in the older yet more inexperienced woman's body, and still, the lack of any other emotions.

Sonnet had been frustrated with her. With her lack of empathy. Lack of reciprocity. She had not developed the same emotions that Sonnet had. That Sonnet had nurtured, hoping, and unknowing— Villanelle was not one to fall in love. Not the type— and not the type of person to fall in love with as well.

Sonnet was quickly heartbroken and Villanelle, after days, weeks, months of conversations with Father and with the retained therapist/psychiatrist, had sincerely (pretentiously) apologized and had handed her training off to another Poet instead.

Ever since then, they rarely crossed paths, usually only during department wide meetings or during continued education. And when their paths did cross, Sonnet was always inflexibly unforgiving. Heated. Indignant. With sharp words and barely concealed glares— and sometimes.

Sometimes…

Villanelle shook her head and stopped her own current train of thought. There was no need to indulge in such wondering or any more of this contact. So, she carefully pulled back her hand, making sure not to clench it into a tight fist, and placed that on her lap as well.

She could be cordial. She could be civil. She could play the role of the supportive, encouraging, and more experienced mentor that Father wanted her to be. After all, it was only acting, and she has always been so good at that.

"Some marks can be very difficult," she started, "some may need a different style of Poet. We have had to change strategies before— as humans can be quite… evolutionary? Progressive. Always changing. And we have to do the same as well. Do not torture yourself. It is a lesson to be learned, as I have said, targets have eluded us for an admirable time before."

"Never you," Sonnet suddenly posed. "You have never lost a target before." And her tone was not as harsh as it usually was. Matter of fact, it was soft, almost complimentary. Maybe even a bit— Villanelle traced the other woman's beautiful face (yes, she was beautiful) with a calculating gaze and inhaled, slowly.

Mango and citrus. And sweat. And a softer scent hiding under that bitter aftertaste of fear.

Villanelle slowly slid back to the opposite end of the SUV. She knew that scent. Deep into those longs nights. Seeping into the air in those early mornings. Over coffee. Over pancakes. Over the remnants of a bonfire extinguished by unexpected rain.

"No," she finally said, looking away. Looking out. Untouched. Unaffected. But aware. Too aware. Trapped in this little bubble with one of the three people who had sincerely confessed to having fallen in love with her…

"I don't suppose I have."

* * *

_Notes: I know I haven't written in a while, so I am rusty and also a bit concerned— please be gentle with me and don't hesitate to leave your thoughts behind. Thank you very much for your time! _

_Also. I really just have to fangirl a little— it's been soooo long since I have written. Even saw that my last update was 2014, but __**god, **__who would not be inspired to fantastical creations by the effervescent and just unbelievably HOT Villanelle? Like. I'd let her murder me, matter-of-fact, I'd probably ask for it. But then again, I've always had a thing for those kinds: Princess Azula, Bellatrix, Shego— just uhhhh. Anyway, thank you once again! _

_p.s. if you want to just fangirl about Villanelle, that's super cool too. _

_xoxo Hors._


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